My skull is a prison.
I have clipped the wings of the only thing that sings,
I cannot bear the sight
Of the feathered white
Stuck in the confines of my cramped mind.
He rasps and scratches at the silver lock,
Rejoin his birdly flock.
There is a magic in words.
The leftovers of your magnificent meal,
A burning fire only you can feel
Deep inside your itching guts
As your eyes take them
And etch them on your heart.
And through you, you feel a flow,
A hundred voices, a brilliant glow,
The greatest drum starts to grow
Within the walls of your empty chest
As your brain awakens from its year-long rest.
Find me the key
Water for the poem-tree
Set the blue-bird free
Fly up, fly up and be.